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It’s dark. In that hour between night and day. Where everything seems a little tilted and unsure. Where the shadows lived.
I walk through the park, just enjoying the air and the trees. Things felt a little unsettled, but I also kinda like that. It felt like the time matched the world itself. It was the only time everything really feels like it makes sense. Balanced in it’s uncertainty.
As I walk I notice a young girl sitting against a willow tree by the river. I look around but there isn’t anyone else that seems to be with her. She’s not too young to be out on her own, but still young enough that I feel the need to check on her. Something about the way she’s sitting calls to me.
She’s quiet. Some could mistake it for introspection or day dreaming, but I get the impression it’s something different- more painful. While she’s looking at the river it seems like she’s seeing something else. It’s hard to explain, there's just something in the way she’s hugging herself. Like there’s a chill in the air even though it’s quite comfortable out. I know this girl. I am this girl.
I walk up to her, trying to make my steps heavy so she doesn’t startle and run. I know that might happen anyway though. People aren’t allowed to see her like this. Even now, when she thinks she’s alone, her hair is hiding her face. I can hear the deep breaths. Trying to make it sound like she’s just enjoying the air in case anybody does come. Like she’s meditating. But I hear the hitches in each pause. The space where she’s pushing down the tears. Needing to be strong, always.
I walk closer and see that she has her sleeves rolled up. Her arms are red and angry. The pain on the inside that she’s made real because she can’t hold it in, but also can’t actually let it out.
“Oh sweetheart.” I sit down near her. Far enough that she can still pretend she’s alone, but in arms reach if she decides she’s safe enough.
“It’s all broken,” the voice is quiet, less than a whisper. It sounds shattered, exactly as she feels. Right now she’s the embodiment of her pain.
I don’t say anything. I don’t need to ask, I already know. And she doesn’t need somebody else forcing her to explain herself right now. She just needs to exist. She needs to know that she’s okay exactly as she is, without conditions and without needing to justify it, or work towards something different.
She takes some deep breaths, trying to come back to herself. She shakes her head a little, and uncrosses her arms from around her knees. She starts to pull her sleeves down. Back to hiding mode.
She pulls down one sleeve and as she goes for the second one I reach over and put my hand at her elbow to stop her. Not touching, but seeing my arm she looks up at me.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say quietly, looking at her face. I know I’m making her uncomfortable, but also know that it works. She knows when someone is seeing her and needs her to listen, and she knows that usually they’re right. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You don’t have to hide here.”
As soon as she sees I’m looking at her she looks anywhere else. Her gaze settles on my arm, that’s over hers. I start to pull it away but she touches my wrist, stopping me. She looks at her own arm, running her fingers along the raised marks the run across it. I can just make out the word “BROKEN”, under and around all the other random cuts and scratches. She points to my other arm, and I hold it out for her to look at. She rolls her sleeve back up and that one spells out “SAVE ME”.
I want to wrap her up and do just that. I want to hold her and rock her and tell her that everything will be okay. But it’s not platitudes she needs right now. She gets enough of those.
Her fingers go from her own arm to mine. Tracing the letters. Reading the words to herself. I can see a small smile as she recognizes them. Brining her hope that not everything gets lost.
“There’s more than one way to brand yourself,” I say. Calmly, quietly. Without judgment.
We stay like that for a while. I can see her working herself up to something. She knows she’s safe now. Nothing is expected of her. But some things still hurt. And some questions need to be answered, regardless of how scary they are.
“Are we ever a family again?” That quiet voice feels like a knife in my chest. Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to lie to her. To not take the little bit of hope she has left, to let her pretend just a little longer. But I know how that turns out. I know the consequences of figuring out the truth too late, and spending so much effort on something that just isn’t ever gonna happen.
“No,” is my only answer. It’s all I can give her right now. Her pain is my pain, and admitting it breaks my heart as much as it does hers.
I see her face fall. For half a second there was hope, and then I took that away. This time I do touch her. I reach out, pulling her too me. Hiding us both from the world, just for a moment.
She freezes. Her own pain warring with the need to soothe mine.
“It’s okay,” I whisper again. “We’re both safe here. It’s not your job to fix everyone.”
That breaks her, exactly like I knew it would. I can feel her tears hitting my arm. Her shaking body holding onto me for dear life. Because as soon as she lets go she has to be strong again, and right now she just needs to be a frightened, hurt child. I let her, for as long as she needs to.
After a while the shaking stops. I pull out a tissue and pass her one, taking one for myself as well.
She looks across the river. We can both see the sky starting to properly lighten up.
We know that this means it will soon be time to start being strong again. We both sigh, and then giggle at the similarities which only makes us laugh harder.
As we straighten up, I start playing with her hair. Brushing and braiding it and then undoing and starting over. Not trying to accomplish anything in particular, but it gives me something to do with my hands, and it gives her some time to get the positive attention she so desperately needs.
“I’m sorry they can’t see you through their own pain,” I begin. Kind of just filling the silence. I know that she won’t listen to, believe or understand everything that I say right now, but she still needs to hear it, and that’s a start. “And while that is an explanation, it’s not an excuse. Your compassion is your superpower, but don’t let that be all that you are. You’re important too, and it’s okay to focus on yourself. You’re still a kid. You deserve to be loved and taken care of, and cared for. Other people deserve that too, but they’re the adults and they have more options on how that can look. Be there for them, don’t lose that compassion, but also don’t lose yourself in their struggles. There’s a lot that’s been put on you, and a lot that, for whatever reason, you’ve taken on.”
I stop playing with her hair and just put my hands on her shoulders. I let the pause sit for a beat, letting her know that this is another important thing she needs to hear. “It’s not your fault. You did the absolute best you possibly could. You tried and did way more than ever should have been expected of you. They made their own choices and while you have to live with that, you are not responsible for it. You have done nothing wrong. It isn’t your fault and isn’t your responsibility to fix.”
I can hear her sharp intake of breath. Feel her shoulders tense up as she braces against the pain of my words. I can sense the cage she puts those words in. She doesn’t believe it yet. She doesn’t think she deserves absolution and if she lets those words in, even a little bit, she might start to realize that she has nothing to be absolved of, and that hurts too much. It’s easier to think that she’s to blame. That this is all happening because she deserves it.
I want to tell her about all the ways that she’s going to find what she’s looking for still. It’s just going to be in a different way than she expects. I want to warn her against chasing it too hard, because that’s only going to lead to more suffering. But I keep my silence. My place isn’t to save her from the pain, that’s not possible anymore. I’m just here to tell her that she’s enough. To try to help her to stop blaming herself and thinking that she failed. It’ll take time, but maybe, just maybe, by letting her be herself she’ll come around one day.
The daylight proper reflects off the water. She pulls her sleeves down, wipes her hands down her face and I see the mask slip back into place. I smile sadly at her. She turns to go, but for the first time her voice is strong, calling back to me, “Will you be here if I come back?”
“Always. As often as you want.”
She nods once, and then walks off to face the day.
I let my fingers trail on the surface of the river, letting my own tears mix with the water and be washed away. I mourn for the girl she used to be. I let myself feel bad that I can’t save her anymore. But I also feel relief. I may not be able to save her, but I can let her know that she’s loved.
I get up, slipping my own mask back on. It’s not as full as hers. It’s cracked and falling apart and sometimes I’m able to let it down completely now. We’re both learning. Taking a deep breath I go to face my own day.